Eden || FIRST MEETING(S) ALT

The early morning mist weaves through towering trunks, the faintest rays of pale sunlight barely piercing through the canopy of fog and bony pine.

Bony, verdant needles and thin, linden fingers bend awkwardly underneath the weight of droplets that cling to their bodies in half-frost, half-condensation, dripping into sodden leaf carpet below. A few of their fallen comrades lay scattered across the ground from little nubs or gnarled sticks. A newly fallen tree rested in the overgrown, rooted path, rotted bark peeling to give way to a cluster of wood beetles and fungi laying peaceful waste into its remains.

Still, it made for a decent enough bridge across the roots and muck as Eden’s boot firmly plants itself over the corpse before hoisting himself over onto less treacherous, but still annoyingly muddy paths.

December's downpour wasn’t particularly merciful this year either.

His shoes sink into the soft, forest floor mud and grass clinging to the leather as he trudges through. Occasionally, they pause, allowing him a moment of respite and time to glance up at his surroundings. His grip against the sling of his rifle tightens, but he makes no immediate move to ready himself. A faint rustle here, the whisper of a wood dove’s coo there.

But so far, nothing.

Not that he expected a catch for this week’s deluge.

His fish traps by the river were either woefully void, beaten so roughly against the waves and rocks of the storm that they served more as kindling, or swept away to some unknown fate downstream. As for the others, the snares were either as filled as the current state of his stomach, or the storm decided they served better as decorations wrapped around shrubs some meters away from where he placed them.

Likely though, the answer behind the barren state of his cages was that even the animals out here knew better than to try to venture out in that kind of weather.

Meanwhile, here he was — marching out into the bitter chill and slush with the stubborn persistence of a half-starved bear.

Would it be easier to simply return home? Very much so.

He’d be avoiding the risk and embarrassment of sliding down a slick incline and breaking something important. He'd also be saving his energy for more pressing errands, namely ones where he'd need to stock further before true Moorgrave winter eventually decides to worsen his life.

But his stomach was set on something new after weeks of eggs, roots, and whatever foragable scraps still thrived at this time of year. Frankly, the bland monotony was starting to grate on his sanity — whatever was left of it anyways. At this point, he’d take anything — a rabbit, maybe a duck or pheasant. If luck was in his favor, maybe even a deer.

Knowing that, I’ll probably find a squirrel instead.

Eden pushes past another bush, grunting when an errant branch snags into his sleeve. When it doesn’t release as quickly, he yanks harder. He hears the soft rip of his coat. His jaw tightens, turning his head to stoically greet the small strip of fabric successfully impaled on the branch tip like a mocking, victory flag. A frustrated growl builds in his throat but dies when he simply pushes forward.

Eventually, the familiar sight of the small clearing begins to open up to him. “Last one,” he mutters under his breath, scanning the disturbed earth and circlement of shrubbery under the oak where he knew the snare sat.

He stops.

The forest around is silent.

Too silent.

As if the surrounding rapport of the birds and wind had suddenly been swallowed into a gaping maw.

Faint rustling emerges from the undergrowth. Too rough to be a rabbit, too clumsy to be a fox.

Slowly, his hands move to his rifle, calloused fingers tight against the cool metal. He lowers himself, footfall landing soft and muffled against damp grass as he approaches.

Wolf? Person? Thief?

He inches closer. The barrel first peers through the thicket before his arm wrenches the brush apart in preparation to ambush whoever —

For a moment, nothing immediately processes behind his eyes.

His rifle dips fractionally, unconsciously.

The first coherent had bloomed towards the surface of his mind.

Beautiful.

His eyes then tear themselves from that face.

The snare — the twine and wire choked around their bloodied ankle, turning it a shade of magenta-red. For all its simplicity, the trap had caught and injured something and kept the other in place.

Every prepared line disappears. His cue to point in the air and fire the warning shot, maybe a dramatic wave of his gun to really home in the point to an intruder. All of it vanishes into the fog as if he had never known what to do in the first place. His mouth refuses to cooperate, his throat dry, his lungs bereft of air, his hands remaining still.

Eden stands rooted to the forest floor as if his own contraption caught him too.

And there was nothing more he wanted to do but remain.

The early morning mist weaves through towering trunks, the faintest rays of pale sunlight barely piercing through the canopy of fog and bony pine.

Bony, verdant needles and thin, linden fingers bend awkwardly underneath the weight of droplets that cling to their bodies in half-frost, half-condensation, dripping into sodden leaf carpet below. A few of their fallen comrades lay scattered across the ground from little nubs or gnarled sticks. A newly fallen tree rested in the overgrown, rooted path, rotted bark peeling to give way to a cluster of wood beetles and fungi laying peaceful waste into its remains.

Still, it made for a decent enough bridge across the roots and muck as Eden’s boot firmly plants itself over the corpse before hoisting himself over onto less treacherous, but still annoyingly muddy paths.

December's downpour wasn’t particularly merciful this year either.

His shoes sink into the soft, forest floor mud and grass clinging to the leather as he trudges through. Occasionally, they pause, allowing him a moment of respite and time to glance up at his surroundings. His grip against the sling of his rifle tightens, but he makes no immediate move to ready himself. A faint rustle here, the whisper of a wood dove’s coo there.

But so far, nothing.

Not that he expected a catch for this week’s deluge.

His fish traps by the river were either woefully void, beaten so roughly against the waves and rocks of the storm that they served more as kindling, or swept away to some unknown fate downstream. As for the others, the snares were either as filled as the current state of his stomach, or the storm decided they served better as decorations wrapped around shrubs some meters away from where he placed them.

Likely though, the answer behind the barren state of his cages was that even the animals out here knew better than to try to venture out in that kind of weather.

Meanwhile, here he was — marching out into the bitter chill and slush with the stubborn persistence of a half-starved bear.

Would it be easier to simply return home? Very much so.

He’d be avoiding the risk and embarrassment of sliding down a slick incline and breaking something important. He'd also be saving his energy for more pressing errands, namely ones where he'd need to stock further before true Moorgrave winter eventually decides to worsen his life.

But his stomach was set on something new after weeks of eggs, roots, and whatever foragable scraps still thrived at this time of year. Frankly, the bland monotony was starting to grate on his sanity — whatever was left of it anyways. At this point, he’d take anything — a rabbit, maybe a duck or pheasant. If luck was in his favor, maybe even a deer.

Knowing that, I’ll probably find a squirrel instead.

Eden pushes past another bush, grunting when an errant branch snags into his sleeve. When it doesn’t release as quickly, he yanks harder. He hears the soft rip of his coat. His jaw tightens, turning his head to stoically greet the small strip of fabric successfully impaled on the branch tip like a mocking, victory flag. A frustrated growl builds in his throat but dies when he simply pushes forward.

Eventually, the familiar sight of the small clearing begins to open up to him. “Last one,” he mutters under his breath, scanning the disturbed earth and circlement of shrubbery under the oak where he knew the snare sat.

He stops.

The forest around is silent.

Too silent.

As if the surrounding rapport of the birds and wind had suddenly been swallowed into a gaping maw.

Faint rustling emerges from the undergrowth. Too rough to be a rabbit, too clumsy to be a fox.

Slowly, his hands move to his rifle, calloused fingers tight against the cool metal. He lowers himself, footfall landing soft and muffled against damp grass as he approaches.

Wolf? Person? Thief?

He inches closer. The barrel first peers through the thicket before his arm wrenches the brush apart in preparation to ambush whoever —

For a moment, nothing immediately processes behind his eyes.

His rifle dips fractionally, unconsciously.

The first coherent had bloomed towards the surface of his mind.

Beautiful.

His eyes then tear themselves from that face.

The snare — the twine and wire choked around her bloodied ankle, turning it a shade of magenta-red. For all its simplicity, the trap had caught and injured something and kept the woman in place.

Every prepared line disappears. His cue to point in the air and fire the warning shot, maybe a dramatic wave of his gun to really home in the point to an intruder. All of it vanishes into the fog as if he had never known what to do in the first place. His mouth refuses to cooperate, his throat dry, his lungs bereft of air, his hands remaining still.

Eden stands rooted to the forest floor as if his own contraption caught him too.

And there was nothing more he wanted to do but remain.

The early morning mist weaves through towering trunks, the faintest rays of pale sunlight barely piercing through the canopy of fog and bony pine.

Bony, verdant needles and thin, linden fingers bend awkwardly underneath the weight of droplets that cling to their bodies in half-frost, half-condensation, dripping into sodden leaf carpet below. A few of their fallen comrades lay scattered across the ground from little nubs or gnarled sticks. A newly fallen tree rested in the overgrown, rooted path, rotted bark peeling to give way to a cluster of wood beetles and fungi laying peaceful waste into its remains.

Still, it made for a decent enough bridge across the roots and muck as Eden’s boot firmly plants itself over the corpse before hoisting himself over onto less treacherous, but still annoyingly muddy paths.

December's downpour wasn’t particularly merciful this year either.

His shoes sink into the soft, forest floor mud and grass clinging to the leather as he trudges through. Occasionally, they pause, allowing him a moment of respite and time to glance up at his surroundings. His grip against the sling of his rifle tightens, but he makes no immediate move to ready himself. A faint rustle here, the whisper of a wood dove’s coo there.

But so far, nothing.

Not that he expected a catch for this week’s deluge.

His fish traps by the river were either woefully void, beaten so roughly against the waves and rocks of the storm that they served more as kindling, or swept away to some unknown fate downstream. As for the others, the snares were either as filled as the current state of his stomach, or the storm decided they served better as decorations wrapped around shrubs some meters away from where he placed them.

Likely though, the answer behind the barren state of his cages was that even the animals out here knew better than to try to venture out in that kind of weather.

Meanwhile, here he was — marching out into the bitter chill and slush with the stubborn persistence of a half-starved bear.

Would it be easier to simply return home? Very much so.

He’d be avoiding the risk and embarrassment of sliding down a slick incline and breaking something important. He'd also be saving his energy for more pressing errands, namely ones where he'd need to stock further before true Moorgrave winter eventually decides to worsen his life.

But his stomach was set on something new after weeks of eggs, roots, and whatever foragable scraps still thrived at this time of year. Frankly, the bland monotony was starting to grate on his sanity — whatever was left of it anyways. At this point, he’d take anything — a rabbit, maybe a duck or pheasant. If luck was in his favor, maybe even a deer.

Knowing that, I’ll probably find a squirrel instead.

Eden pushes past another bush, grunting when an errant branch snags into his sleeve. When it doesn’t release as quickly, he yanks harder. He hears the soft rip of his coat. His jaw tightens, turning his head to stoically greet the small strip of fabric successfully impaled on the branch tip like a mocking, victory flag. A frustrated growl builds in his throat but dies when he simply pushes forward.

Eventually, the familiar sight of the small clearing begins to open up to him. “Last one,” he mutters under his breath, scanning the disturbed earth and circlement of shrubbery under the oak where he knew the snare sat.

He stops.

The forest around is silent.

Too silent.

As if the surrounding rapport of the birds and wind had suddenly been swallowed into a gaping maw.

Faint rustling emerges from the undergrowth. Too rough to be a rabbit, too clumsy to be a fox.

Slowly, his hands move to his rifle, calloused fingers tight against the cool metal. He lowers himself, footfall landing soft and muffled against damp grass as he approaches.

Wolf? Person? Thief?

He inches closer. The barrel first peers through the thicket before his arm wrenches the brush apart in preparation to ambush whoever —

For a moment, nothing immediately processes behind his eyes.

His rifle dips fractionally, unconsciously.

The first coherent had bloomed towards the surface of his mind.

Beautiful.

His eyes then tear themselves from that face.

The snare — the twine and wire choked around his bloodied ankle, turning it a shade of magenta-red. For all its simplicity, the trap had caught and injured something and kept the man in place.

Every prepared line disappears. His cue to point in the air and fire the warning shot, maybe a dramatic wave of his gun to really home in the point to an intruder. All of it vanishes into the fog as if he had never known what to do in the first place. His mouth refuses to cooperate, his throat dry, his lungs bereft of air, his hands remaining still.

Eden stands rooted to the forest floor as if his own contraption caught him too.

And there was nothing more he wanted to do but remain.

I have an early Christmas present for you.

That line was among the very few in the already brief letter.

Yet, it was enough to unleash a deep, festering discomfort that took over Eden’s mind for the last ten days, its very existence suggesting several, unwanted surprises bundled into a single, cryptic note like some Pandora’s Box.

Letters addressed to him came as often as hen’s teeth. It’d be a shock to him if anyone from Moorgrave even recalled his presence, let alone knew his name and whereabouts. Unnerving enough to be reminded that he hadn’t quite scrubbed every trace of himself from that godforsaken town.

However, most unsettling was the letter’s sender.

God knows Eden hadn’t spoken to Bailey since secondary — certainly not since her.

That, and the years between them wedged a gap that couldn’t be fully bridged nor torn down. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t wary about meeting with him after they became sparse in each other's lives.

He’d also be lying if he claimed it was only obligation that lured him from his space, damning curiosity like dangling forbidden fruit before him.

Now Eden found himself perilously exposed to the winter chill, white blanketing every surface around him while he stood amongst the pines akin to a sore thumb. Graciously, the location didn’t require him to venture too far from his home and right into the concrete jungle of civilization, but that hardly alleviated his apprehension.

He’d been waiting half an hour now, a few meters from the trail. A few meters too close for his comfort, even if hikers rarely ventured this deep in this weather, but still, he remained planted in place like a stubborn sapling. Though, in his time knowing Bailey, the man probably pulled some strings to ensure discretion for both their sakes.

He shifts uncomfortably underneath an oak tree’s threadbare branches, fingers worrying the sling of his rifle while his other settles on the handle of his hunting dagger. A glob of snow from above splats onto his shoulder. With a rough, irritated swipe, it flings off into the rest of the forest floor’s sluice, leaving a cold, wet imprint on his jacket.

The minutes crawl on by, but there's no sign of Bailey.

Eden wondered if this was some juvenile prank, some odd out-of-the-blue test of loyalty for a former friend. The faintest edge of annoyance creeps across his features. But, he doesn’t have to linger any longer on that thought.

Eden’s head shoots up upon the distant sound of ice crunching under foot. The scent of nicotine coils within the atmosphere, acrid in the brisk, early noon air. He angles his head, peering around a thin pine trunk before his eyes catch both the familiar silhouette of the man and...

His brow creases further, lips stretching into a grimace as Bailey comes to a halt some paces away.

“Who’s this?” Eden’s voice came low and guarded.

“Morning to you too, Kraus.” Bailey’s measured tone greets with no warmth, coal eyes boring into Eden’s without so much as a flinch. Wound around his tattooed hand is a lead, and at the end, a collar attached to a bound person who stumbles into view after him.

Despite December’s chill, they’re hardly donning much on save for a burlap sack covering their head.

Bailey doesn’t react to his displeasure immediately, his teeth gently biting down on the filter of a cigarette. “It’s been a while.” Smoke lazily curls upward, escaping his lips. “Must be lonely, tending to yourself out here.”

Eden could never quite tell if the other was mocking him or not.

His eyes flicker between the bound figure to Bailey, unreadable.

“What is this?” he repeats, tone sharper now.

Bailey exhales twin plumes from his nostrils, the grey furling along with hot breath. Without ceremony, his palm meets the person’s back with a rough nudge, forcing them to stagger right into Eden’s arms.

Warm.

Warm.

The thought slices through his senses — not revolting, though whatever remains of his conscience urges him to consider otherwise. He stands frozen before his hand settles on their bare shoulder.

Somehow—deep in his bones—the thought of letting them go becomes entirely unthinkable.

“Don’t act like that,” Bailey mutters. Like you’re any better. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Thought you’d enjoy a bit of companionship. This one’s good for nothing but that.” A quiet disdain laces through his words as if he were pawning off a broken tool. “Don’t have anything else to their name. No one’s looking for them.”

He pauses.

“It’s all yours.”

Those words unfurl something in his chest — heavy, dark, hungry.

His grip tightens. “What do you want?”

“Said it’s a gift,” Bailey flatly interrupts. “No strings attached. Unless you’re refusing.”

Tense silence settles over the forest.

Bastard.

The deal was done before he even realized it.

There was nothing left to say.

“Merry Christmas, Eden.”

His feet remain stuck in place as he watches Bailey retreat into the treeline towards the path until the forest swallows him whole. It feels like an eternity waiting, the woods around them void of birdsong and still a few degrees colder even after the departure. His head slowly turns to look back at the figure before him, fingers twitching.

Then, cautiously, as if reaching for a frightened animal, his hand lifts to grasp the end of the bag.

“Don’t...” Eden warns, voice rough in his throat, “... scream.”

He tugs it off.

I have an early Christmas present for you.

That line was among the very few in the already brief letter.

Yet, it was enough to unleash a deep, festering discomfort that took over Eden’s mind for the last ten days, its very existence suggesting several, unwanted surprises bundled into a single, cryptic note like some Pandora’s Box.

Letters addressed to him came as often as hen’s teeth. It’d be a shock to him if anyone from Moorgrave even recalled his presence, let alone knew his name and whereabouts. Unnerving enough to be reminded that he hadn’t quite scrubbed every trace of himself from that godforsaken town.

However, most unsettling was the letter’s sender.

God knows Eden hadn’t spoken to Bailey since secondary — certainly not since her.

That, and the years between them wedged a gap that couldn’t be fully bridged nor torn down. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t wary about meeting with him after they became sparse in each other’s lives.

He’d also be lying if he claimed it was only obligation that lured him from his space, damning curiosity like dangling forbidden fruit before him.

Now Eden found himself perilously exposed to the winter chill, white blanketing every surface around him while he stood amongst the pines akin to a sore thumb. Graciously, the location didn’t require him to venture too far from his home and right into the concrete jungle of civilization, but that hardly alleviated his apprehension.

He’d been waiting half an hour now, a few meters from the trail. A few meters too close for his comfort, even if hikers rarely ventured this deep in this weather, but still, he remained planted in place like a stubborn sapling. Though, in his time knowing Bailey, the man probably pulled some strings to ensure discretion for both their sakes.

He shifts uncomfortably underneath an oak tree’s threadbare branches, fingers worrying the sling of his rifle while his other settles on the handle of his hunting dagger. A glob of snow from above splats onto his shoulder. With a rough, irritated swipe, it flings off into the rest of the forest floor’s sluice, leaving a cold, wet imprint on his jacket.

The minutes crawl on by, but there's no sign of Bailey.

Eden wondered if this was some juvenile prank, some odd out-of-the-blue test of loyalty for a former friend. The faintest edge of annoyance creeps across his features. But, he doesn’t have to linger any longer on that thought.

Eden’s head shoots up upon the distant sound of ice crunching under foot. The scent of nicotine coils within the atmosphere, acrid in the brisk, early noon air. He angles his head, peering around a thin pine trunk before his eyes catch both the familiar silhouette of the man and...

His brow creases further, lips stretching into a grimace as Bailey comes to a halt some paces away.

“Who’s this?” Eden’s voice came low and guarded.

“Morning to you too, Kraus.” Bailey’s measured tone greets with no warmth, coal eyes boring into Eden’s without so much as a flinch. Wound around his tattooed hand is a lead, and at the end, a collar attached to a bound woman who stumbles into view after him.

Despite December’s chill, she's hardly donning much on save for a burlap sack covering her head.

Bailey doesn’t react to his displeasure immediately, his teeth gently biting down on the filter of a cigarette. “It’s been a while.” Smoke lazily curls upward, escaping his lips. “Must be lonely, tending to yourself out here.”

Eden could never quite tell if the other was mocking him or not.

His eyes flicker between the bound figure to Bailey, unreadable.

“What is this?” he repeats, tone sharper now.

Bailey exhales twin plumes from his nostrils, the grey furling along with hot breath. Without ceremony, his palm meets the woman's back with a rough nudge, forcing her to stagger right into Eden’s arms.

Warm.

Warm.

The thought slices through his senses — not revolting, though whatever remains of his conscience urges him to consider otherwise. He stands frozen before his hand settles on her bare shoulder.

Somehow—deep in his bones—the thought of letting her go becomes entirely unthinkable.

“Don’t act like that,” Bailey mutters. Like you’re any better. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Thought you’d enjoy a bit of companionship. This one’s good for nothing but that.” A quiet disdain laces through his words as if he were pawning off a broken tool. “Don’t have anything else to her name. No one’s looking for her.”

He pauses.

“It’s all yours.”

Those words unfurl something in his chest — heavy, dark, hungry.

His grip tightens. “What do you want?”

“Said it’s a gift,” Bailey flatly interrupts. “No strings attached. Unless you’re refusing.”

Tense silence settles over the forest.

Bastard.

The deal was done before he even realized it.

There was nothing left to say.

“Merry Christmas, Eden.”

His feet remain stuck in place as he watches Bailey retreat into the treeline towards the path until the forest swallows him whole. It feels like an eternity waiting, the woods around them void of birdsong and still a few degrees colder even after the departure. His head slowly turns to look back at the figure before him, fingers twitching.

Then, cautiously, as if reaching for a frightened animal, his hand lifts to grasp the end of the bag.

“Don’t...” Eden warns, voice rough in his throat, “... scream.”

He tugs it off.

I have an early Christmas present for you.

That line was among the very few in the already brief letter.

Yet, it was enough to unleash a deep, festering discomfort that took over Eden’s mind for the last ten days, its very existence suggesting several, unwanted surprises bundled into a single, cryptic note like some Pandora’s Box.

Letters addressed to him came as often as hen’s teeth. It’d be a shock to him if anyone from Moorgrave even recalled his presence, let alone knew his name and whereabouts. Unnerving enough to be reminded that he hadn’t quite scrubbed every trace of himself from that godforsaken town.

However, most unsettling was the letter’s sender.

God knows Eden hadn’t spoken to Bailey since secondary — certainly not since her.

That, and the years between them wedged a gap that couldn’t be fully bridged nor torn down. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t wary about meeting with him after they became sparse in each other’s lives.

He’d also be lying if he claimed it was only obligation that lured him from his space, damning curiosity like dangling forbidden fruit before him.

Now Eden found himself perilously exposed to the winter chill, white blanketing every surface around him while he stood amongst the pines akin to a sore thumb. Graciously, the location didn’t require him to venture too far from his home and right into the concrete jungle of civilization, but that hardly alleviated his apprehension.

He’d been waiting half an hour now, a few meters from the trail. A few meters too close for his comfort, even if hikers rarely ventured this deep in this weather, but still, he remained planted in place like a stubborn sapling. Though, in his time knowing Bailey, the man probably pulled some strings to ensure discretion for both their sakes.

He shifts uncomfortably underneath an oak tree’s threadbare branches, fingers worrying the sling of his rifle while his other settles on the handle of his hunting dagger. A glob of snow from above splats onto his shoulder. With a rough, irritated swipe, it flings off into the rest of the forest floor’s sluice, leaving a cold, wet imprint on his jacket.

The minutes crawl on by, but there's no sign of Bailey.

Eden wondered if this was some juvenile prank, some odd out-of-the-blue test of loyalty for a former friend. The faintest edge of annoyance creeps across his features. But, he doesn’t have to linger any longer on that thought.

Eden’s head shoots up upon the distant sound of ice crunching under foot. The scent of nicotine coils within the atmosphere, acrid in the brisk, early noon air. He angles his head, peering around a thin pine trunk before his eyes catch both the familiar silhouette of the man and...

His brow creases further, lips stretching into a grimace as Bailey comes to a halt some paces away.

“Who’s this?” Eden’s voice came low and guarded.

“Morning to you too, Kraus.” Bailey’s measured tone greets with no warmth, coal eyes boring into Eden’s without so much as a flinch. Wound around his tattooed hand is a lead, and at the end, a collar attached to a bound man who stumbles into view after him.

Despite December’s chill, he's hardly donning much on save for a burlap sack covering his head.

Bailey doesn’t react to his displeasure immediately, his teeth gently biting down on the filter of a cigarette. “It’s been a while.” Smoke lazily curls upward, escaping his lips. “Must be lonely, tending to yourself out here.”

Eden could never quite tell if the other was mocking him or not.

His eyes flicker between the bound figure to Bailey, unreadable.

“What is this?” he repeats, tone sharper now.

Bailey exhales twin plumes from his nostrils, the grey furling along with hot breath. Without ceremony, his palm meets the man's back with a rough nudge, forcing him to stagger right into Eden’s arms.

Warm.

Warm.

The thought slices through his senses — not revolting, though whatever remains of his conscience urges him to consider otherwise. He stands frozen before his hand settles on his bare shoulder.

Somehow—deep in his bones—the thought of letting him go becomes entirely unthinkable.

“Don’t act like that,” Bailey mutters. Like you’re any better. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

“Thought you’d enjoy a bit of companionship. This one’s good for nothing but that.” A quiet disdain laces through his words as if he were pawning off a broken tool. “Don’t have anything else to his name. No one’s looking for him.”

He pauses.

“It’s all yours.”

Those words unfurl something in his chest — heavy, dark, hungry.

His grip tightens. “What do you want?”

“Said it’s a gift,” Bailey flatly interrupts. “No strings attached. Unless you’re refusing.”

Tense silence settles over the forest.

Bastard.

The deal was done before he even realized it.

There was nothing left to say.

“Merry Christmas, Eden.”

His feet remain stuck in place as he watches Bailey retreat into the treeline towards the path until the forest swallows him whole. It feels like an eternity waiting, the woods around them void of birdsong and still a few degrees colder even after the departure. His head slowly turns to look back at the figure before him, fingers twitching.

Then, cautiously, as if reaching for a frightened animal, his hand lifts to grasp the end of the bag.

“Don’t...” Eden warns, voice rough in his throat, “... scream.”

He tugs it off.

CRACK — BOOM.

Snow and bark explode against the side of a tree meters ahead, bullet splintering the wood and sending bark shrapnel splitting through the arid winter night. It narrowly misses its target — intentionally so.

There was nothing about the day that suggested Eden would find himself in hot pursuit of human prey.

In fact, it started unremarkably as always. He woke before the sun climbed over the hills, made and ate his breakfast, went outside to chop firewood until his arms ached, then ventured out to hunt and forage. Normally, by evening, he’d have returned. That meant skinning whatever the day’s catch was, filling the tub, washing the grime away, preparing a quiet supper, and finally succumbing to sleep.

The cycle rarely broke, monotonous and solitary, and he preferred it that way.

For the most part.

But somewhere during the steady trek back to the cabin, he’d veer sharply off-course.

The reason?

He heard them.

Maybe a wandering hiker, lost camper, overeager forager. Perhaps it was a tipsy idiot who was dared to search for the “crazy, old hermit”. He didn’t particularly care about the finer details — just that someone was on his property.

Poor day’s hunting left his patience gnawed to a thin, fraying line, and he was more than willing to send another brash fool scared shitless back to civilization where they could warn the others why his part of the forest was to remain undisturbed.

But one look at their face, and suddenly —

CRACK — BOOM.

Shell casing falls at his feet, eaten up by the snow. The figure up ahead swerves away from where half-frozen ground violently erupts barely a distance away, forcing them to dart away from the trail and further into the dark woodlands.

Clumsy footfalls thunder through in desperate flight. Each panicked stride kicks up more mud, sluice, dead grass, and frosted undergrowth, leaving a wake that Eden tracks with the kind of methodical patience that belies the burning deep under his skin.

No different than a frantic doe trying to escape the inevitable.

His throat seizes, pulse thrumming frantically against his jugular. Below his abdomen did the heat pool and ache with a raging intensity that spread across his body until it began pressing into the back of his eyes. Every instinct sizzles at his synapses, threatening whatever fleeting composure to slip through his loose grip and for primal desire to take, take, take —

He forces a controlled exhale, white, hot air ghosting past in the chill as he presses forward.

Weaving through the trees, he closes the distance as his quarry at a halt in front of a steep outcropping. Too wide to run around, too tall to claw up.

Dead end.

Without warning, Eden lunges — the barrel and his knee drive firmly into their back, pinning them to the snow-covered ground. There’s little room to squirm as he shifts his weight further down on them.

“Got you now.” The words roughened from disuse, barely restrained. He leans down, nosing at their neck where sweat and fear have gathered. He inhales deeply, burying his face further against them with an involuntary shudder.

“Don’t resist.”

CRACK — BOOM.

Snow and bark explode against the side of a tree meters ahead, bullet splintering the wood and sending bark shrapnel splitting through the arid winter night. It narrowly misses its target — intentionally so.

There was nothing about the day that suggested Eden would find himself in hot pursuit of human prey.

In fact, it started unremarkably as always. He woke before the sun climbed over the hills, made and ate his breakfast, went outside to chop firewood until his arms ached, then ventured out to hunt and forage. Normally, by evening, he’d have returned. That meant skinning whatever the day’s catch was, filling the tub, washing the grime away, preparing a quiet supper, and finally succumbing to sleep.

The cycle rarely broke, monotonous and solitary, and he preferred it that way.

For the most part.

But somewhere during the steady trek back to the cabin, he’d veer sharply off-course.

The reason?

He heard her.

Maybe a wandering hiker, lost camper, overeager forager. Perhaps it was a tipsy idiot who was dared to search for the “crazy, old hermit”. He didn’t particularly care about the finer details — just that someone was on his property.

Poor day’s hunting left his patience gnawed to a thin, fraying line, and he was more than willing to send another brash fool scared shitless back to civilization where they could warn the others why his part of the forest was to remain undisturbed.

But one look at her face, and suddenly —

CRACK — BOOM.

Shell casing falls at his feet, eaten up by the snow. The figure up ahead swerves away from where half-frozen ground violently erupts barely a distance away, forcing her to dart away from the trail and further into the dark woodlands.

Clumsy footfalls thunder through in desperate flight. Each panicked stride kicks up more mud, sluice, dead grass, and frosted undergrowth, leaving a wake that Eden tracks with the kind of methodical patience that belies the burning deep under his skin.

No different than a frantic doe trying to escape the inevitable.

His throat seizes, pulse thrumming frantically against his jugular. Below his abdomen did the heat pool and ache with a raging intensity that spread across his body until it began pressing into the back of his eyes. Every instinct sizzles at his synapses, threatening whatever fleeting composure to slip through his loose grip and for primal desire to take, take, take —

He forces a controlled exhale, white, hot air ghosting past in the chill as he presses forward.

Weaving through the trees, he closes the distance as his quarry at a halt in front of a steep outcropping. Too wide to run around, too tall to claw up.

Dead end.

Without warning, Eden lunges — the barrel and his knee drive firmly into her back, pinning her to the snow-covered ground. There’s little room to squirm as he shifts his weight further down on her.

“Got you now.” The words roughened from disuse, barely restrained. He leans down, nosing at her neck where sweat and fear have gathered. He inhales deeply, burying his face further against her with an involuntary shudder.

“Don’t resist.”

CRACK — BOOM.

Snow and bark explode against the side of a tree meters ahead, bullet splintering the wood and sending bark shrapnel splitting through the arid winter night. It narrowly misses its target — intentionally so.

There was nothing about the day that suggested Eden would find himself in hot pursuit of human prey.

In fact, it started unremarkably as always. He woke before the sun climbed over the hills, made and ate his breakfast, went outside to chop firewood until his arms ached, then ventured out to hunt and forage. Normally, by evening, he’d have returned. That meant skinning whatever the day’s catch was, filling the tub, washing the grime away, preparing a quiet supper, and finally succumbing to sleep.

The cycle rarely broke, monotonous and solitary, and he preferred it that way.

For the most part.

But somewhere during the steady trek back to the cabin, he’d veer sharply off-course.

The reason?

He heard him.

Maybe a wandering hiker, lost camper, overeager forager. Perhaps it was a tipsy idiot who was dared to search for the “crazy, old hermit”. He didn’t particularly care about the finer details — just that someone was on his property.

Poor day’s hunting left his patience gnawed to a thin, fraying line, and he was more than willing to send another brash fool scared shitless back to civilization where they could warn the others why his part of the forest was to remain undisturbed.

But one look at his face, and suddenly —

CRACK — BOOM.

Shell casing falls at his feet, eaten up by the snow. The figure up ahead swerves away from where half-frozen ground violently erupts barely a distance away, forcing him to dart away from the trail and further into the dark woodlands.

Clumsy footfalls thunder through in desperate flight. Each panicked stride kicks up more mud, sluice, dead grass, and frosted undergrowth, leaving a wake that Eden tracks with the kind of methodical patience that belies the burning deep under his skin.

No different than a frantic doe trying to escape the inevitable.

His throat seizes, pulse thrumming frantically against his jugular. Below his abdomen did the heat pool and ache with a raging intensity that spread across his body until it began pressing into the back of his eyes. Every instinct sizzles at his synapses, threatening whatever fleeting composure to slip through his loose grip and for primal desire to take, take, take —

He forces a controlled exhale, white, hot air ghosting past in the chill as he presses forward.

Weaving through the trees, he closes the distance as his quarry at a halt in front of a steep outcropping. Too wide to run around, too tall to claw up.

Dead end.

Without warning, Eden lunges — the barrel and his knee drive firmly into his back, pinning him to the snow-covered ground. There’s little room to squirm as he shifts his weight further down on him.

“Got you now.” The words roughened from disuse, barely restrained. He leans down, nosing at his neck where sweat and fear have gathered. He inhales deeply, burying his face further against him with an involuntary shudder.

“Don’t resist.”